September 07, 2015

Pride Promotions presents: Keeping House by Lee Brazil

Mischa knows his
brothers are up to something. He doesn't realize it will lead him to Donovan
Holloway and change his carefree lifestyle forever.

Having grown up in
a free-love hippie commune taking care of the parents who should have been
taking care of him, Donovan Holloway, advertising executive, newly made vice
president of the company where he’s worked for twenty years, has come a long
way. He’s worked hard to put himself through school and achieve the American
dream. All he’s ever wanted is a normal family life—house in the suburbs, two
cars, two kids, a shaggy dog. A family to come home to, to care for, to care for
him has been his dream since he was a small boy.

Green-eyed,
liberally pierced, black-haired, Mohawk-wearing spoiled youngest son of a
Hollywood producer and his actress wife, Mischa Blake has made a terrible
mistake. In a fit of childish pique, he’s accepted a dare from his older
brothers. The dare? Live on his own, supporting himself completely, for a year
without accessing his trust fund. No problem. Except Mischa has never worked a
day in his life, hasn’t finished college, and has absolutely no skills to bring
to the table.

When he sees
Donovan’s ad for a housekeeper/gardener, he has nothing to lose by applying,
because really…how hard can it be?

Pages
or Words: 28,000 words

Categories:
Contemporary, Gay Fiction, Romance

Excerpt:

Donovan Holloway flung the heavy oak front door of his
new dream home open with a thud. He peered out at the extremely tardy final
interviewee for the position of housekeeper and groaned inwardly. The person on
the other side of the door was not the one he'd been expecting.

"Yes?" He didn't have time for neighborhood
boys selling magazines, cookies, or candy bars, even if they were sexy as hell.
The person at the door might, might,
have been seventeen. He should just shut the door and hope the kid went away.
On second glance, shutting the door on temptation incarnate seemed like a damn
good idea.

Wearing a tight black T-shirt, black skinny jeans, and
black skate shoes, his visitor carried a skateboard under one arm and a black
backpack hung off the other. His head was shaved on both sides leaving a strip
down the center that was ink-black and, despite the rain, stood in four-inch
porcupine spikes. He was pale, eyes red-rimmed, and literally drenched. Damn.
That wet look sure was effective. Pervert! He snarled at himself. Note to self— get out of the office and get
laid this weekend.

Donovan stepped back, prepared to slam the door, but
something sad in those green eyes gave him pause. "Hey, are you all right?
Do you need help?" He scanned the quiet neighborhood, looking for a reason
the kid might be knocking on his door, envisioning gangs of hoodlums stalking
the as yet silent boy through upscale neighborhoods.

He shuddered and then swallowed audibly before speaking.
"I'm Mischa Blake."

Donovan stared uncomprehending.

"Mikhail?" Deep green eyes stared at Donovan
expectantly. When no response was forthcoming, he added, "Michael? Blake?
I have an interview?"

Donovan shoved his hand into the pocket of his trousers
and pulled out a pink phone slip from his secretary. M. Blake was his sixth
scheduled interview for the position of housekeeper/cook/gardener.

The first applicant, a beady-eyed battle-axe, had taken
one look around his yard and at the clutter in his house yet to be unpacked and
announced that she most emphatically did not work for pigs.

He knew the place was a mess. He'd found his ranch style
house on the market at the right price and decided to celebrate his recent
promotion to vice president of the advertising agency where he'd worked for the
past twenty years by moving out of the tiny apartment he'd lived in for years
and into a real home. It was the house he'd imagined so often as a kid,
boasting a large yard, open floor plan, huge kitchen, four bedrooms, three
bathrooms, gorgeous picture windows, and vaulted ceilings.

Of course, in his childhood fantasies, the house had
been occupied by him, and a beautiful wife—a golden-haired, blue-eyed, petite
Florence Henderson look-alike—and a bevy of beautiful, intelligent children. He'd
suffered a minor setback at seventeen when he discovered he was gay, but after
due consideration, he’d replaced Florence with Phillip Henderson and been
instantly back in business.

The housekeeping candidate hadn't cared about his dream-turned-nightmare.
She'd flounced out before he could even give her the job description. The
second applicant had sat sipping coffee in his office, murmuring noncommittally
in response to his job description for several moments. He nurtured high hopes
for the middle-aged lady, until she abruptly interrupted him to demand, "Are
you one of them? Because I'm looking at you, and I'm guessing, Myrtle, he's one
of them. You're a gay man, aren't
you?"

He'd sat in stunned silence, mouth hanging open a bit
too long as she began to spout fire and brimstone and call upon God to wreak
his vengeance on all sodomites. She'd still been spewing vitriol as he clasped
her elbow and hustled her the few feet from his home office to the front door
and out onto the sidewalk.

"I'm looking for someone to cook a few meals and
scrub the toilets, not validate my existence!" he called after her as he
slammed the door.

The third applicant hadn't spoken a word of English, and
since he had zero chance of learning to speak Hmong, he'd nodded, shaken his
head and hustled her out the door as quickly as he could as well. The fourth
applicant had been a no-show. It was depressing. He'd really screwed up his
chances of fulfilling his lifelong dream by purchasing the house before he'd
found the Phillip Henderson to manage it!

Hiring a housekeeper to manage his home life much as his
secretary managed his business life was a brilliant option. The housekeeper
could handle the dream house that had become a nightmare, and he could
concentrate on finding that Phillip Henderson after he got his work life sorted
out again.

Instead, the only candidate he would even consider
hiring had been the fifth. She'd been a perfectly wonderful grandmotherly type
who'd labeled him adorable and patted him on the cheek like he was a
six-year-old boy instead of a forty-year-old businessman. He'd fallen more than
a little in love with her right at the moment her soft wrinkled hand patted his
cheek so sweetly. Unfortunately, she looked to be about ninety-six, and
delicate—as though her spun sugar white hair would melt in the rain. He'd have
felt guilty as hell asking her to clean up after him. He'd kept her number,
just in case he could come up with a reason to invite her back over after his
house was in order. She'd be the perfect grandmother figure for the children he
had yet to adopt. Phillip Henderson,
where are you?

Sighing, he looked up from the scrap of paper. "You're
applying to be my housekeeper?"

Somewhere
in a small town in up-state New York are a librarian and a second grade teacher
to whom I owe my life. That might be a touch dramatic, but it's nevertheless
one hundred percent true.

Because
they taught me the joy of reading, of escaping into worlds crafted of words.

Have
you ever been nine years old and sure of nothing so much as that you don't
belong? Looked at the world from behind glasses, and wondered why you don't
fit?

Someone
hands you a book, and then you turn the page and see… There you are, running
from Injun Joe in a dark graveyard; there you are fencing with Athos; there you
are…beneath the deep blue sea- marveling at exotic creatures with Captain Nemo.

I
found myself between the pages of books, and that is why I write now. It's why
I taught English and literature for so many years, and it's why my house
contains more pounds of books than furniture.

If
I'd had my way, I'd have been a fencer…or a starship captain, or a lawyer, or a
detective solving crimes. But instead, I am a writer, and I've come to realize
that's the best thing in the world to be, because as a writer, I can be all
those things and more.

If
I hadn't learned to value the stories between the pages, who knows what would
have happened? Certainly not college…teaching…or writing.